Dreams of Yesterday
by Dot
Summary: A bitter homecoming for fifteen year old Curt Wilde after eighteen months of electrotherapy.
1. Welcome Home

Dreams of Yesterday  
  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own VG. I wish I did. Alas, no. Anyway, this story is written about Curt's childhood, which (as everyone who's seen the movie knows) sucked royally. It's gonna get a bit disturbing sooner or later, so be warned. Ahead be violence and sexuality, not all of it consensual. It will stay within the R rating, though, promise.   
  
  
Chapter One: Welcome Home  
  
The sky was pale and cold, the clouds shoving away all sunlight as the wind whipped around him. Clumps of yellowed snow were scattered the driveway; the flowers were dead in their clay pots. It was the perfect day for homecoming.   
  
Curt caught a glimpse of himself in the window of his father's truck. His skin was too pale, his hair sticking out at odd angles as it grew out from its choppy cut. He tugged on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. It had been his favorite two years before. It was too large now, hanging limply from his bony frame.   
  
His mother's warm hand landed on his shoulder; from habit, he flinched. She looked disappointed, but only said, "It's alright, sweetheart. You're home."   
  
Home. It was a foreign word, registering only a vague recollection in his mind. It came with a hazy memory of love and pain, a mixture of elation and dread, forming in the pit of his stomach and traveling upwards, lodging a lump in his raw throat.   
  
His footsteps echoed on the damp pavement. The sound was too loud, almost surreal. Everything around him was too much, too real. There were no blurring lines like at the hospital, nothing that was merely there. Since he'd set foot outside the hospital, everything had a smell, a taste, a feel to it, not least the air, which smelled like smoke, tasted like dust, and felt like freedom.   
  
The porch was only a step away. He stopped still, watching his father climb the steps, his posture slumped and defeated. His mother gave him a tiny push forward, so gentle, like she was afraid to break him. He didn't move. There was something wrong in this place, there always had been, but he just couldn't remember what it was.   
  
His mother noticed his hesitancy; glancing at his father, she whispered, "Michael…"   
  
The gruff older man turned as he held the front door open with one hand; the other gripped Curt's barely used suitcase. Face pinched and scowling, he choked out, "Welcome home."   
  
Curt nodded and lowered his head. Slowly he climbed the steps and entered the trailer. It was dingy and dark, nearly identical to the ones that surrounded it. The three of them piled into the small living room and Curt pulled away from the tiny crowd, heading down the hallway. He knew his bedroom was in the very back, but he didn't know if it was on the left or the right. Tentatively, opened the left door a crack, peeking in before stepping completely inside. He expected to remember, expected to look at the walls and feel the carpet beneath his feet and suddenly know everything that the treatments had made him forget. But he couldn't remember hanging the poster above his bed or throwing a basketball haphazardly in the corner.   
  
Curt sighed and plopped down on his bed. It didn't feel like him. The room, the house, the clothes… It all felt wrong and different. He wrapped his arms around himself and fell back on the bed, sighing. Maybe it would come back, in time. Maybe one day, it would seem right again. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.  
  
Before sleep could claim him, the door crashed open. Curt sprung to his feet, eyes wide. The name came unbidden to his lips as the taller boy lounged in the doorway. "Alex."   
  
Alex nodded, a smile slipping across his face. "Hey, bro. Welcome home." 


	2. Back to Normal

Chapter Two: Back to Normal  
  
  
Curt was frozen, chills sweeping through him violently, but he didn't move a muscle. Something told him not to, some instinct or memory deep inside him made him stop any movement, even breath.   
  
Alex stepped into the shadows of the room and gestured toward him. "When did you get here?"   
  
"Just… Just a minute ago."   
  
"Why are you in my room?"   
  
Curt looked around blankly. "Your room?"   
  
"Yeah," Alex replied, dropping onto the bed. "Yours is across the hall, remember?"   
  
"No." Curt turned from his brother. Before he could move, his brother's hand caught his belt, pulling him back onto the bed. "What?"   
  
"Missed you," Alex replied, with a wink and a smile, tousling Curt's hair.   
  
The touch sent a wave of terror through him. "You too," he choked out and let Alex fold his arms around him in a warm hug.   
  
A shadow fell across them and Alex sprang back quickly. They both looked to the door, where their father stood, heavy frame shielding them from the hall's light. "Curt, what are you doing in here?"   
  
"I didn't know-"   
  
"He thought it was his room, Pop," Alex replied before Curt could get a sentence out.   
  
Dorothy's hand appeared on Michael's shoulder. "Honey, the doctor's said he might forget some things…"   
  
Michael pulled away from his wife. "You're room's across the hall. Dinner's in an hour. You might want to clean up."   
  
Curt stood and squeezed past his mother and father. He'd spent the past eighteen months cleaning up, but it didn't look like it had done any good.   
  
*  
  
The table hadn't been set for five since the day he'd been shipped off to the hospital. That morning had been the last time, breakfast in the waning summer heat. Eggs and pancakes. How odd that he remembered that, but so much else remained forgotten.   
  
His mother made pork chops for dinner. She informed him that they were his favorite with a bright smile. He played along, digging voraciously into the home cooked food while the other members of his family stared at him.   
  
He felt like an alien. They all kept staring at him, as if they expected him to strip naked and dive into the green beans. He tried to keep his eyes on his food, but he felt their eyes in him. Especially Alex's.   
  
His sister finally broke the silence with a gentle, "Report cards were sent home today."   
  
Michael and Dorothy both turned to look at their daughter. "Yes, that's right, isn't it?"   
  
"Will we be pleased, Judy?" Dorothy asked, a tight smile stretched across her lips.   
  
"I think so."   
  
"We'll have to get Curt reenrolled, won't we?" she continued. "Are you looking forward to going back to school after break, darling?"  
  
Curt nodded tersely. "Of course," he said, forcing the lie from his lips.   
  
Dorothy sighed while her husband just stared down into his plate. "Everything's back to normal."   
  
Curt's head moved of its own accord; his eyes snapped to Alex, who was in mid-bite. He paused, met Curt's eyes, then chomped down on his forkful of pork.   
  
*Normal.* Curt looked back to his plate and sighed. *Yeah, right.* 


	3. Remembrance

Chapter Three: Remembrance  
  
He was drowning, the black water pulling at him from every which way. He could feel the hands on his head, tangled in his hair, pushing him under. It was freezing and dark, and no matter how hard he tried, the one shoving him down wouldn't stop.  
  
His lungs were about to burst. He forced his mouth to open but sucked in only water, brackish and rank. He spit it out and thrashed, pulling away from the hands knotted in his hair. He sucked the water up his nose, into his mouth, and down his throat, as he fought for freedom. He finally jerked away, handfuls of his hair coming out as he forced his way to the surface.   
  
It was waiting for him there, the terrifying monster that brought him to his knees, red eyes glaring and steam pouring from its nostrils. He couldn't fight it anymore; he collapsed at its feet, battered and broken.   
  
Its claws were snaking up his thigh when his eyes snapped open. His chest was heaving; his hair was damp and plastered to his head. He swallowed hard and buried his head in his pillow. *It's not real, it's not real, it's not real,* he repeated over and over in his head, his knees curling to his chest.   
  
A sliver of light fell on his bed; he started, eyes flying to the door, more afraid to see Alex's blue eyes than any red ones.   
  
His breath came out in a sigh when he realized it was only Judy. She stepped into his room, a black case in one hand, and sat on the corner of his bed. "Hey," she said gently, running a smooth hand across his forehead. He sat up quickly and smiled at her. She returned the smile, and handed him the bulky case. "Kept it in my room… safe."   
  
He opened it gently, took the guitar out with careful hands. "I play?"   
  
Judy cocked her head, brows ruffled. "You really don't remember?" When he shook his head, she continued. "You loved to play. You saved up for months to buy it. I hardly saw you without it for weeks. Until…" she stopped and he knew she wasn't going to finish her sentence.   
  
"I don't remember…" He trailed off, strumming the strings lightly. "Did I take lessons?"   
  
"No." She paused, biting on her lower lip, staring at him with big blue eyes. "Oh, God, Curt, what did they do to you?"   
  
He didn't want to answer, didn't want to travel back to that dark room where he'd spent so many nights. His eyes closed involuntarily. "I don't remember most of it." He was silent for a moment, fighting the memories that surfaced and then his eyes snapped open. "I don't wanna talk about it."   
  
"It's okay." Judy smiled sadly, then stood. "I should get to bed."   
  
"G'night."   
  
She moved to the door then turned back and said slowly, "Love you, Curt."  
  
He nodded. "Ditto." 


	4. Sweet Dreams

Chapter Four:   
  
He didn't sleep much that night. It was hard to fall asleep to the sound of traffic rushing outside instead of the screaming of his fellow patients. The soft yellow moonlight that streamed in through his window lit the room too much; it was brighter at night than it ever was in his hospital room. But he couldn't bare to close the curtains, couldn't be plunged back into the darkness. With the darkness came the monsters.  
  
Instead he laid in his bed waiting for Saturday to come, lounging in the softness and warmth of the tiny bed. It had been too long since he'd watched the sunrise, and he did so in awe, eyes fixed on the pale golden-red rays filtering into his room through the gray screen, spilling light onto the stained carpet. He ignored the stains, and focused on the dancing brightness as it washed over everything, transforming terrifying night into golden day.   
  
Tuesdays and Saturdays had been the best days at the hospital. In the morning, he would get his shot and then be wheeled in for the therapy. He didn't know if it hurt; he never remembered the pain. He'd wake up later that day, disoriented, but okay, and he'd feel good. Completely normal, relaxed. He wouldn't remember why he was at the hospital or what he'd done wrong. Those were the days he'd play checkers with the nurses or read People, before eating dinner and sometimes, if he was good, the night nurse might let him watch an hour of TV in the lounge with her. He never remembered what they watched, or even if he'd liked it. But the huge yellow couch was comforting, the smell of flowers and muffins a welcome change from the sterile putrescence of the rest of the hospital.   
  
The other days were worse. There were no checkers, no old People magazines with faded pictures of Elvis and the Beach Boys. The pictures he saw then he wished he could forget. But they were burned into his brain.   
  
He felt sick just thinking about it. A naked torso, a bare back… The thought of them brought back the memory of retching, gagging, his own fetid stench surrounding him as he threw up again and again, as they force-fed him the drugs and shoved the pictures under his nose, all the while blasting a tape about the sin of homosexuality, the disgusting evilness of it. He'd burn in hell if he continued with his crimes. What they hadn't figured out was that he was already there.   
  
Curt pushed the thoughts from his head when he heard his mother's footsteps to the kitchen. Quickly, he hopped out of bed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then headed to the tiny kitchen where he knew she'd be.   
  
He was right. He smiled as he watched her, her hands gripping the spoon, whipping pancake batter until it was smooth. Her face looked so lovely in the morning, worries washed out by the light.   
  
She turned, somehow aware of his presence. "Good morning."   
  
He nodded and entered the kitchen fully. "Morning. Need any help?"   
  
"No, Curt. But thank you," she said, finally deciding that the mix was smooth enough. He watched her silently as she poured the batter into perfect circles on the skillet, smelling the grease and batter as if for the first time. She flipped the pancakes, then turned to him. "I was thinking we could go shopping today. You need new clothes desperately," she said, glancing down at his jeans. They hung loosely at his hips, cinched around the waist with a old leather belt. The bottoms barely reached his ankles, though; he'd grown in the year and half he'd been gone. "Unless you wanted to stay and play with your friends…"  
  
"No, shopping's fine," he said in a hurry.   
  
His mother smiled. "Alright then. We'll head into the city after breakfast."   
  
"Sounds good," Curt said, and smiled.   
  
*  
  
Detroit was exhilarating, terrifying, altogether new and completely familiar. The streets had barely changed, but he had, so drastically that he barely recognized things that had been so familiar before. Half the time he was petrified, seeing something that he didn't remember or something that he did, recalling an ugly memory of imagined sin. The other half, he was amazed at it all, little things that had escaped him before, slamming into his consciousness full force. Like the mouthwatering smell of pizza, the crisp taste of Pepsi, the rough feel of denim against his skin. It all seemed new and different.   
  
They returned from the shopping mall loaded down with parcels, Christmas gifts for the family and new clothes for him. For a while, it was as if nothing had happened; the past disappeared and he was just Curt, helping his mother peel potatoes for dinner and arguing with Judy over who got to lick the spoon after making cake batter.   
  
Then Alex and his father came home.   
  
Dinner was silent. Utterly silent, only broken by Alex's loud, "Pass the salt." Curt excused himself as soon as he could, and retreated to the safety of the kitchen, busying himself with dishes. The hot water felt good running against his hands, burning and cleansing.   
  
When the dishes were done, he settled on the floor next to Judy, eyes focused on the cartoon shimmying across the tiny screen. Curt smiled. It was a simple pleasure, but one he never forgot, even through the blinding agony and blissful amnesia of the hospital. 'I Dream of Jeannie', on Saturday nights. He flashed a smile at his older sister, who winked at him before turning back to the screen.   
  
The show was nearly half over before his father walked in, took one look at the screen and then at Curt, his eyes on Major Nelson instead of Jeannie, and flipped the switch ruthlessly. "Not on my television."  
  
"Dad…" Curt trailed off as his father turned to him. He quieted and merely said, "I like that show."   
  
"Yeah," Alex said, flopping onto the couch. "Jeannie's a babe."   
  
"I just think it's funny," Curt said with a shrug, getting to his feet.   
  
Alex's leg darted out as he tried to pass, blocking his retreat. "Where you going?"   
  
"Bed," Curt replied, swallowing hard.   
  
"It's early yet."   
  
"Leave your brother be, Alex," Dorothy said, looking up from her sewing with worried doe eyes.   
  
Alex obediently moved his leg, clearing the way. "Be my guest." Curt passed him quickly, but as he was walking away, Alex's leg shot out again, kicking him lightly on the butt. Curt barely paused before continuing to his room. Alex called out behind him, "Sweet dreams!"   
  
Curt shut his door behind him, and slid to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest, face buried in his arms.   
  
Sweet dreams didn't exist anymore. 


	5. Brotherly Love

A/N: Sorry about the slow updates. I've been in Disneyland stalking cute (gay) guys. Long story, don't ask, lol. Anyway, thanks to everyone who's reviewed. Hope you enjoy and please R+R.   
  
Chapter Five: Brotherly Love  
  
Curt wasn't used to crowds. He hadn't seen many people in the hospital; most of the people there weren't the type one wanted to see. The crowd Sunday morning was large and noisy, a buzzing that worked its way from the front of the crowd to the back, where the Wildes sat.  
  
His mother's head was bowed, her face staring solemnly at her shoes. His father stared at the pulpit, the glow in his eyes defiant. But not proud, Curt noted, eyes following his mother's.   
  
Alex's leg pressed against his, heat seeping through his slacks. He squirmed uncomfortably. His father's hand landed on his knee, effectively stopping his fidgeting. Curt glanced up at him; Michael just looked away, not meeting his son's gaze. Curt looked back down.   
  
The collection plate had just been passed around; the choir floundered on the last notes of their song as the preacher climbed the steps to the stage. He flashed a smile at the crowd, huge and dazzlingly false. "Brothers and sisters," he greeted them. "Please stand and join me in a prayer." Curt stood and bowed his head as the preacher began to speak. "Lord, thank You for this day. Thank You for the love enfolding this building, thank You for the health of your people. And thank You for the protection from the sin that is around us, so that even if that sin dwells in our homes, in our families, in our very brothers, it cannot infiltrate our souls."   
  
Curt squeezed his eyes shut tight, but salty wetness wedged an opening in the shutters covering the blue-gray orbs. Finally, the prayer was over, and Curt sank into the hard pew, wishing he was invisible, wishing he was dead.   
  
*  
  
Time had dragged by, each minute longer than the last, the ticking of the clock a grim echo, barely audible above the pastor's sermon. Finally, it was over. The Wilde's took their time in exiting, not seeming to notice the hidden stares or muted whispers directed their way.   
  
Curt split away from his family at the exit, heading toward a group of his old friends. He didn't wait for them to turn away as he moved closer, didn't wait for their snickers to reach his ears; he just veered off to the side, heading into the alley behind the church.  
  
Curt thought he'd be alone, but leaning against the back wall was Lewis Corman, a half smoked cigarette held casually in his hand. He looked up and nodded as Curt approached. "You want?" her asked, holding the cigarette out. Curt nodded hesitantly and reached for it. He took a puff, then coughed, harsh spasms racking his thin frame. "Your first," Lewis said, smile tugging at his skinny lips.   
  
"Yeah," Curt replied, passing it back.  
  
"You'd think you'd try *something* up in New York."  
  
Curt's brow ruffled. "New York?"   
  
Lewis's eyes glinted in the pale sunlight as they met Curt's. "Yeah. Boarding school. All sorts of nasty things go on there… Or so they say."   
  
"Boarding school?"   
  
"The cat's out of the bag. Your father told us about your foray into the city. Nothing to be ashamed of, after all." Lewis took the cigarette back and took a long drag. "So how was the big bad city?"   
  
Curt shrugged. "Fine. I mean, great."  
  
"Fuck it. You're no fun," Lewis said, flicking the cigarette away. "Everyone knows, Curt. Your father can make up whatever bullshit he wants to about boarding schools and scholarships, but everyone knows that your big brother likes-"   
  
Before he could finish, Curt hit him. It didn't even register in his brain; he just pulled his fist back and slammed it forward, into Lewis's nose. The older boy barely stumbled back; just grimaced, then smiled, lips curling around his teeth nastily. "A little sensitive, aren't you? 'Specially since I was so nice to you."   
  
Curt's eyes narrowed. "Just stay away from me."   
  
"Not a problem. No one likes spineless little queers, anyway."   
  
"That explains why you're so unpopular then," Curt shot back over his shoulder as he strode away.   
  
A growl and heavy steps were his only warning before Lewis's shoulder slammed into Curt's back. They fell in a tangle onto the pavement, Lewis's arm yanking Curt's head back as his fist pummeled Curt's side.   
  
Suddenly the hard blows stopped; Lewis's yelling took on a shrill tone as he was lifted off of him. Curt opened one eye, and stared as Alex tossed the other boy away. He held a hand out for Curt, waiting to haul him to his feet.  
  
Curt stared up at his savior, then curled into a ball and turned away. 


	6. Used to

Chapter Six: Used To…  
  
"He never used to get in fights."   
  
The walls of the mobile home were paper thin. Every syllable his mother said traveled through those walls; every single grunt of disapproval his father uttered made its way to his ears. He tried not to listen, he really tried, but it seemed like those words were said especially for him to hear.   
  
His mother continued, her voice barely loud enough to be heard. "Before… Before, he never had problems. He always got along with everyone."  
  
"That's because before he let them pick on him like a little fag would… At least now he's standing up for himself. Maybe those treatments did some good after all." His father's voice was rough, strained, almost angry.   
  
Curt rolled onto his side, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and tried to bury his head deeper under the pillow. But the slightest pressure on his cheek burned, and he didn't want the scrape there to start bleeding again.   
  
They didn't talk for long. His parents never did. He knew exactly when their light went out, knew exactly when his mother gave in to his father's advances, and knew when their strained love making ended, when they rolled apart.   
  
He tried to sleep. It didn't come easily and fighting for it just pushed it further away. When he was little and couldn't sleep, he'd always gone to Alex. He'd never turned him away, just let him curl up next to him, holding him tight until morning. He'd never understood what was wrong with that.   
  
Until that day.   
  
Curt rolled over, brushing his cheek against the rough material of his pillow. It stung and he cringed. He hated the pain of the outside world. There was no morphine to numb every nerve, no meprobamate to make him fall asleep when the pressure of thinking overcame him. It was like that now, a weight building on his brain. He just wanted to stop thinking, stop feeling.   
  
Curt swallowed and stared at his ceiling. He never used to think like that.   
  
His door creaked open, and he sat straight up, eyes wide. Alex stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the moonlight, his sweats hanging loosely at his waist, his torso bare. "Can't sleep?" he whispered, taking a tentative step toward his brother's bed.   
  
Curt's hands tightened on his quilt. "I'm fine."  
  
Alex sat nervously, perched on the corner of Curt's bed, eyes staring intently at his little brother. "What happened today?" Curt shrugged, then grimaced at the pain that echoed through his body at the motion. "Lewis said something about the hospital, didn't he?" Curt didn't need to answer; Alex read it on his face in an instant. He sighed and ducked his head. "I'm sorry."   
  
Curt shrugged again, ignored the pain. "Doesn't make the bruises go away."   
  
"I know that." Alex's hand reached for his, pulled back at the last instant. "Get some sleep. Lotsa stuff to do tomorrow."   
  
"Good night, Alex," Curt said mechanically, lowering himself to his pillows, not taking his eyes off his brother.   
  
Alex's jaw clinched, something flashed in his eyes. Then he swallowed and it was gone. "Night."   
  
Alex stood and Curt rolled to his side, away from him. A moment later, he heard the door close, and he was left more alone than he ever used to be.   
  
*  
  
The pine forest was enormous, blanketing what had been a dry field when he saw it last. Bare spots littered the field, where trees had been plucked up to be decorated and played around. Dirty sludge pooled on the ground, trod over remnants of pure snow. Curt stepped in one of the puddles, and waited until the freezing muddy water sunk into his tennis shoe.   
  
"Ma wanted us to wait till you were home." Alex's voice jolted his eyes from the mud puddle and he blinked, completely confused. "The tree… The day before Christmas is kinda late." Alex continued, swallowing hard. "We were gonna get one last week, when there was a bigger selection, but Mom wanted us to wait."   
  
"Thanks," Curt replied, moving his foot to solid ground.   
  
Judy's laugh, tinkling like Christmas bells called him over to a small tree, full and round, where his mother and his father stared anxiously at the price tag as Judy pranced around it. "We have to have it. It's perfect."   
  
"It's expensive," Michael replied harshly.  
  
"It's Christmas," was Dorothy's reply, her big brown eyes finding Michael's immediately.   
  
Michael shrugged, conceding. "Alex, help me get this thing to the car."   
  
Judy squealed happily and skipped off with Dorothy to pay the salesman, looking six instead of sixteen. Curt looked from his brother and father, sizing up the tree, to his mom, then backed slowly away from the tree.   
  
His father's voice stopped him. "Curt, give us a hand."   
  
Curt froze, blue eyes moving from his father to Alex, who stared forlornly at his wet shoes. Then he nodded and moved to help. 


	7. Losing Grip

Chapter Seven: Losing Grip  
  
Christmas morning. It felt almost magical, the way the chilly air lifted his heart out of his stomach, his spirit out of gloominess. The smell of spicy cider filled the damp air, and Curt breathed in hungrily.  
  
"Curt!" Judy's voice echoed down the hall. "Hurry up or we'll leave without you!"   
  
Curt glanced at the door, alarmed, then at the clock. It was 9:13; they'd be late for Christmas service if he didn't hurry up. Church, then presents, that was the deal; and the later they were to church, the longer the presents would have to wait. He threw a shirt on over his slacks and reached for his tie.   
  
The door slammed; a moment later, the horn honked. Curt tapped his foot anxiously while struggling with the damned black and red striped tie. "Stupid thing…" he trailed off, sighing.  
  
The door slammed again; footsteps thudded down the hall. "Ready to go, Curt?" Alex asked, bounding into the room, door swinging shut behind him.   
  
Curt looked over his shoulder and gestured helplessly to the tie. "This is impossible."   
  
Alex laughed, a breathless chuckle, and stepped forward. "Let me."   
  
Curt sighed and relinquished his necktie to his brother, who tied it quickly, then turned him around and smiled into the mirror, one eyebrow shooting up. "The Wilde brothers. Finest of the trailer trash," he joked.   
  
Curt laughed. "I hate getting dressed up."   
  
"You look fine… The girls will eat you up," Alex said, a tight smile falling from his lips. He stared at their reflection, confusion suddenly playing on his face. He took a hesitant step forward, until he brushed against Curt. Curt swallowed and tried to step away, but Alex's hands caught a firm hold on his shoulders. "Where you going, little bro?"   
  
"Don't," Curt whispered as Alex's hands trailed softly down his arms, then across his chest. "Please."   
  
"Begging already?" His breath caught in his throat even as he made the joke, his hands slipping from view, tucking Curt's shirt into the waistband of his pants, then slipping lower.   
  
"Alex…" Curt murmured, his hands reaching to stop Alex's. "Stop it."   
  
Alex's hands came back into view, and he planted them firmly on Curt's shoulders, turning him around to face him. "Come on, Curt. It'll be quick. We'll make it in time, I promise."   
  
Visions of the bathroom flashed across Curt's mind; he whimpered and tried to pull away, nausea creeping through his bones. Alex's hand tangled in Curt's choppy hair, strangely gentle, forcing him down. He stayed still, on his knees, just staring at the bulge beneath the thick wool slacks.   
  
"Don't tell me they fried this memory too… I know you know how…" Alex trailed off, his hand busy unzipping his fly.   
  
"Alex, don't make me," Curt said, struggling against the hand twisted in his hair, pulling away even through the hot pinpricks of pain as his hair tore from his scalp.   
  
Reality slammed back into Alex's face, and for a moment, he looked horrified, before his face twisted into a sneer. "Make you?" he asked, shoving Curt back onto the floor. "You get off on it, you little fag."  
  
Curt struggled to his feet. "I do not!"   
  
"You do and you know it," Alex replied, fingers digging into Curt's upper arm painfully. "I'll show you how much you like it…" Alex muttered, forcing him to turn, pressing him onto the bed. He felt Alex's hands fumble with his belt as he climbed on top of him.   
  
The nausea was mounting, a heavy swell in the pit of his stomach. Alex's hands on his belt, his pants, tugging them down brought back too many memories, too many feelings. He wanted to vomit, to cry, to throw himself into black oblivion and never come back.   
  
Instead, he snapped.  
  
"You fucking bastard! Get the hell off of me!" His elbow slammed back, hit Alex's jaw with a sickening thud. He squirmed out from under his brother's body, kicking him for good measure. He landed on the floor with a thud, rolling away from the bed before Alex could recover.   
  
The door slammed open before Alex could even stand up, and his father stood there, staring down at them with fiery eyes. Curt knew what he saw: his younger boy on his knees again, Alex inches away, pants unzipped. "Alex!" he yelled as his older son scrambled to stand. "Go to your room!"   
  
"It's not-" Alex began, hurriedly trying to pull up his pants, but he was cut off with another order to go to his room. He did so warily, slinking out of the bedroom, careful not to brush his brother or father on his way out.   
  
"You little queer. I paid those doctors good money to fry the fairy out of you. And I find you again, with your pants down around your ankles!"  
  
His pants were firmly belted to his waist, but Curt didn't think it an appropriate time to state that. "It was Alex-"   
  
His mother's shrill cry drowned his protests. "Dear Lord, its happening again. It's happening again!"   
  
Curt had to remind himself to breathe. They were turning it around, just like before. They wouldn't see that it was Alex, that their precious golden boy, the athlete, the star, was the one who liked to be sucked off by his little brother. "I didn't do anything wrong!"  
  
She clutched at her husband's arm, desperate for strength. "The doctors promised this would work… Michael, they promised it would work…"   
  
"*They* locked me in a room and sent shocks through my brain! They made me lie in my own vomit!"   
  
Dorothy collapsed, hands pressed over her ears. "Stop it! Just stop!"   
  
Michael barreled toward his son, arm ready to deliver a blow. Curt ducked it, and shoved his father backward. "I won't stop! I didn't do anything wrong!"   
  
His father's hands reached for his belt. "Damn it, boy, you are gonna pay."   
  
Curt didn't move. "I already have!"   
  
His father's hands slowly fell from his belt, and Curt could tell there'd be no beating. Instead his father shook his head. "Get out. You're a filthy sinner. I won't have your immorality under my roof."   
  
"*My* immorality? Anything I did, he wanted me to do, made me do. He's the filthy sinner. The only thing I did wrong was trust you to keep me safe." Curt forced his muscles to straighten, forced himself to look his father in the eye. And then he walked out.   
  
A/N: Ah, the joys of Christmas. Oddly enough, being an elf takes a lot of the Christmassy cheer out of you:) Anyway, I know this whole chapter came out of nowhere, but plotting has never been my strong suit. There's one more chapter left, though, so TBC. 


	8. Tomorrow

Chapter Six: Tomorrow  
  
The bus station was deserted and hollow, the stale smell of old urine and dirt permeating the air. Curt sat curled up on the bench, just waiting for nothing. His guitar was pressed against his chest, the case cold against his already cooling skin.   
  
He only had enough money to get to Detroit. It wasn't far enough away, but it would have to do. Tomorrow his new life would begin, without ties, without hatred, without family, without money, without love.  
  
Curt shifted and he heard his joints pop. He'd gotten old so quickly. His bones felt tired, worse than any day in the hospital. He'd go back there in a minute, go back and disappear into the haze of sleeping pills and pain pills, of meprobamate, morphine, Novopoxide, Valium, codeine. Lose himself and his sin in electric shocks, and maybe find love again.   
  
In the end, he just sat there, staring into the murky light breaking into the cavernous station. The announcer shouted out his bus number and Curt rose wearily, swinging his guitar over his shoulder. Maybe Detroit was far enough.   
  
It would have to be.   
  
A/N: Sorry the end took me SOOO long to get up. I've been really busy, not working and failing math. Anyway, I started a sequel a long time ago, but I don't know if I'm gonna continue. Please review and let me know if you want me to. 


End file.
